The Itch
by Carl Hjerne Bay
Summary: A short story about the fall of a young man from Tirisfal to demonic influences and the loss, of both his family and his mind, that came with it. Told in a modernist style between the events of the Cataclysm and MoP.


**The Itch**

He had always had a fascination with fire. But he had never quite realised how fully he itched for it.

Rotten, he thought. Pushing through the marshlands had been hell, an all too specifically wet and fetid kind of hell. The sweat on his brow from scrabbling for firewood had conjoined with the grime that covered the rest of his body, in every nook and along every vein, a mixture of mud, damp, ash and blood. Beast-blood, mostly, but it had been months, and nothing so pushes man towards beast as lack of patience. On most days, as most were cold and damp, the muck coating remained semiliquid and only a minor irritant, but on the rare sunny ones… it became insufferable. The grime caked, broke off and drizzled with every twitch, and the commonplace hiding from muckdwellers and marsh crocolisks became an intense vibrating struggle within him, as if a fire had been lit to fight a different fire – first roaring, and then painfully slow. He would go to places, in those moments. Go to places in his cavernous head, as his headmistress had oft referred to it. "Tomes and scrolls can be tossed therein, young Aethel, yet nothing seems to sate it. We must find something to occupy you with." That had become the task of the head alchemist and the pyromancer, two interesting men with weird pasts afore they joined the school staff, but then the beast grumbled three feet from his head and Aethel came rushing back into the front of his head, the active bit.

Aethel always felt the anticipation itch in his fingers, felt every section of the magics he had dissected and memorised in the vast tomes. He had read of how it had begun, how it had rooted itself in the leylines, how the ley seeps through the earth, through the air, into the nerves and how, through that ancient Titanic link – it becomes mana, all too naturally. To him it felt as natural as blood flowing to aroused places, and arousing it was – but he attempted to keep in mind what he grasped, and not just let sheer excitement take him. Although it did, often.

The crocolisks blackened carcass burst in one final place, the left eye, as it jittered into an unnatural and horrid death. Aethel stopped and looked at it, only for a moment. He saw the scales where his flames had landed turn to ash and flow off into the stagnant marsh waters, as the carcass sank into the dark, mucky waters. He smelt it, a blessed smell through the everyday rot. Cooked meat, roasted, even. He reached out, almost slipped in his frantic, spontaneous gesture and tore off a charred rib and along with it some the exposed rib-meat. Without thinking, he took the first bite, the second and the third, before his senses overcame him. He spat out the muddy, half-cooked flesh of the still dying beast, and spat again. He turned, tried not to think of how much it had reminded him of his mums roast dinners, and of that one time where he had tried to help.

Tirisfal had never exactly been a light-hearted place. There was a weight in the air, a dark thing calling you, every day at dusk and the nights were strange places. It was long before Aethel knew it as a den of the undead, but he never got to experience it as what it once was for long.

He was five. The garden had been his favourite place to read. The sun, or what there was of it. The insects, what few there were. And the lizards. He liked them. There was one, and then it was there. Silky, purple-black beings, who his alchemy teacher had assured him were vegetarian. It was one of those days. He had been reading for hours, the sun had been gone, been up, and was going away again when he was about to finish an old tome his father had borrowed from the faculty of Scholomance. It spoke of spooky demons, beasts and strange, green fire. Aethel had begun to imagine that the lizards in the grass were the hellhounds of the books, that the long grass catching the evening sun were the tongues of felfire from the other worlds, and that he was there in the centre, the Nexus Demonicae, as the book called it. He went back and glanced at the diagram drawn of it, that strange fount. It had the shape of a man, half covered in glistening armour and the ideal of masculine muscularity, as the head of fitness had named that other student, the one who pissed in Aethels porridge. The diagram had horns, though Aethel could swear its face was like that of a Titan-era statue, and the sword it carried had similar stylistic carvings, yet it broke off halfway – and Aethel knew not whether this was intentional or if he had simply reached the edge of the etching. He liked that diagram. He liked thinking of himself as the diagram, sat cross-legged in the grass. He imagined his vast hands sweeping through planets as his hands swept the grass, his legs trudging through fields of endlessly multiplying corpses as he curled his bare toes in the grass. He saw his ebon-scorched hand point through aeons at the unjust enemy licking its wounds, a purple-black lizard lounging in the last rays of sun. He felt the universe surge, a rumbling voice, like fire from within and beneath - and he felt his finger itch.

Aethel came to Marshtide Watch with the dawn, a most unlike bringer of light. The muck stuck to him from boots to shoulders, his blood-red hair was a dark lump and likewise was his beard. He had long ago discarded his coat and robes, now his undershirt had almost become like a second hide to him, and he was eager to shed it. Heads turned as he walked across the grounds, sure. He had always been complimented of his luminous eyes, yet now they were as two cinders in a mud-soaked fire – the last vestiges of something wrathful.

The inn offered most comforts, for a price. Aethel opted for a bath, a trim and a washing for the salvageable sections of his clothing (a minority) and a discrete pyre for the unsalvageable ones (a majority). He bought a new shirt off a travelling tailor from Dun Morogh, a sweaty heap of a dwarf who'd never been to "such a feckin' ball-rottin' dung pile of an accursed region", and was eager to make a marginal profit for his travels.

"Have ye been to the temple, lad?" he asked, looking over his pan-fried meal and hefty tankard. "The one where they tried summoning Hakkar? Aye, I've seen it." Aethel answered, surprised at the sudden need for conversation. "'Tis a cursed place, lad. They say it eats at yer sanity, every breath ye take." Aethel wasn't shocked, yet he still struggled to reply. Two months solitude doesn't exactly leave you with many well-honed conversational abilities. "Aye, the smell alone would do that to any man… or dwarf". The peddler burst into a small, guffaw-ridden fit of laughter, a sweat-drop jittering at the tip of his nose. "Aye, aye lad – this feckin' swamp is getting' to me all the same, never mind the pissin' temple. Say, lad, are ye here for a lengthier gig, or are ye off like all other "heroes" – fitful to find their next callin'?"

"I was thinking I'd pay the flightmaster for a ride to the city. That's not being fitful, that's being me seeking calmness from this, as you put it, feckin' swamp"

The peddler guffawed again, wheezing slightly. Aethel wondered if the sweat was related to the humidity, or his markedly reduced tankard of ale.

"Ah lad, then ye be in luck! I had the foresight to lease two of the masters gryphons for a flight to that great, bloated beast that is our city Stormwind, and me stores are so well depleted that I have no doubt that yer skinny figure can be carried aloft as well! What say ye, friend? And if ye nay be interested in friend-makin', then ye can pay me the half fee when we get there."

Aethel was astounded. In this damp wasteland, he'd never expected to find such graciousness, but then again – the dwarf was drunk, and a hungover dwarf were famously much less generous. He had to fix precautions.

"Aye, that's my path done for me then – And I'm sure we'll be friends at the end, master…?"

"Granthor, or Granthor Lightfoot, as me friends would have it. And ye?"

"Aethel. Aethel the Red, to some."

"Splendid, splendid! Well then, Aethel Redlocks, dare ye try the slosh they call ale here?"

Aethel had always been quiet, when necessary. Although drunkards weren't exactly a great test of his skill. He fixed the horn-buttons of his new shirt as he clambered out of his room and across the revellers of the night who'd fallen where they feasted, snoring comically. His new clothes had been brought to his room as he feasted. He passed Granthor, still slick with sweat though now wearing no breeches and his woollen hat had a distinct burn-mark on it from when he had thrown it onto a candelabrum to prove its flame-retardant capabilities. Aethel stroked his trouser pocket that held the bill-of-rental for the two gryphons, which had so recently rested in Granthors pocket, and passed into the moonlight through the unlocked door. The flightmaster was awake, yet only barely so and quite visibly drunk. "What'll it be, sir?" "Two beasts, arranged prior." "Aye, aye…"

Therefore, Aethel set off for Stormwind.

He had carried it with him as he ran inside, down the embroidered carpets, past the portraits of those people he ought to know and down towards the kitchens. He had to show her, the cook-lady. She would appreciate him helping, he'd always been told off for otherwise. It was still warm.

He'd been sleeping in ditches a lot, lately. Or that's what he thought as he woke up to the yell of an elekk being trudged down the narrow street he'd found his resting spot in. The Old Quarter had always been his favourite, and he'd always found the bricks there had a slight warming quality to them. He got up, dusted, wiped, and shook himself rid of the most insistent muck. He had always been told that warlocks were rarely welcome and often preferred elsewhere, but they'd never talked about what happened when you were a foul, evil warlock who on top of it all had no money. Ditches, it would seem. Ditches are what happen to poor, evil, penniless, demon-fucking warlocks.

"Hail, dark-bringer." This joyous remark came from the moustachioed draenei atop the elekk, who'd halted when he'd seen him jump up, twitching, from the ditch aside the road. The draneis eyes were purest bioluminescent contempt. "Do you seek something in our fair city?"

"Aye, I do, I do… where's that bit that that dragon bit off recently? Where that wimpy park used to be?"

"Southwest of here." A curt reply.

"Aye, I see, I see… well, then I'm off!"

"Thank the Light."

The draenei and the hereto-accompanying elekk stomped off, as though even the elekk knew it was meant to place its hooves as though it was in a huff. Aethel turned and passed by the other winos and beggars, who now too had been roused by the spectacle. Oh how much better than them he was.

He'd burst its eye. And a few bits along with it. The lizard had gone from lounging to a brief state of incomprehensibly painful screeching to… nothing. A headless, scorched purple-black corpse, still smoking as he held it. The scorch-marks had begun to crystallize strangely when he plopped it down on the carvers table. The carver, master Bellyock he was called, came over. Why him?

"And what 'ave we got 'ere, little lord?". He was half-blind, yet unmatched when it came to cleaving.

"…A lizard. I caught it myself." Aethel was scared of Bellyock. He'd caught him drinking once. It looked fun.

"Ohh, a lizard for ol' Bellyock ye say, eh? Well, let's have a look; see if it's any good..." The grizzled fingers of the carver grasped for the thing that had been a lizard in the grass, found it, and held it. Both hands ran up and down it. "Aye, aye… issa fat one, this! Ye got a good eye, a hunter's eye! Let's just see…" The fingers reached the jagged, pulsating mess that had been the lizards head.

"Oh! Oh, Light save me…" The fingers dropped the lizard; the wide-set man lurched back.

"Oh, oh little lord, ye see… uhm…" He'd hesitated then. Aethel didn't like it when they went quiet.

"Why don't we wait 'til mornin' with this? I'll… I'll keep it right here, keep it fresh…"

Aethel had gone up the stairs, by force or by his own volition. And he'd slept his last night in his own bed.

The park had been beautiful once – yet it had never been of much interest to Aethel, anyway. It had been a haven for preachy life-worshippers of all kinds; druids, sundry elves and those damned light-kissed draenei, what with their perfect speech and insufferable discipline. He had tried spending days there, at least some warm ones, and he'd sat in circles on the wild, yet strangely perfect lawns. He had chatted with mages who'd created life in vials only to be used as catalysts for strange, explosive spells. He'd been berated by elven emissaries on the importance of maintaining the World Trees, and he'd been passed small sacks of gold coin from shadowy corners to give up the names of any high-ranking members of the Kirin Tor he'd encounter, as they came sauntering from the Mage Quarter and back. Now there was nothing. The claw marks and strange glass-like substances coating the crater told the tale well enough. A truly dark being had been here. And not all of it had left.

He was half a man that time. Or that's what the guard had said. His cell had plain walls, smoothed white bricks as to avoid any useful edges. The flooring was equally plain, and his bed was a bench, a brisk change in pace. He was fed a few meals a day; though counting them seemed pedantic, so he didn't. He didn't notice what he ate, how often, or who gave it to him. He tried - although he didn't even seem to need to try - to not notice anything. It was nice. Sometimes there would be water running down from the grate in the top of the wall furthest from the door, and he would realise it was raining, though he wouldn't think much of it. He didn't think much. He tried feeling what his food was that day, and realised it'd been a week, or at least the colours had changed. His water was sweet, his meal was warm, and his bed was there. He tried not to think. And it came naturally to him. He'd been looking at the right wall from the door for some time. Watched the bricks grow wider, narrower, watched the creases get darker and then lighter as something went on outside. But he didn't care. He just stared at the plain whiteness. And it stared back, he thought. And it smiled, without a mouth, not even a crease curved. And it spoke, from beneath and from within.

_You were always a fascinatingly blank canvas, Aethel. A vessel for others thoughts._

Aethel kept staring. He tried not to think, but something was there now and it was polite to think, he thought. And the whiteness got whiter. And it spoke.

_You are an inversion, Aethel. A blotch of otherness in a plain world. Something special… to me…_

The whiteness looked inviting now. He tried remembering where the creases had been, where brick had met brick but that was hard. And he realised how little he remembered. He was shaking, he thought.

_Otherness doesn't belong in boxes, Aethel. Walk out of it. Simply push it aside and be free._

The whiteness wasn't there anymore. It was everywhere. He felt himself shaking, twitching subtly. It was a wild ride, and it was only going to get wilder. He felt like he hadn't felt in years. He felt, which had also become a distant experience. He saw his hands against the whiteness, remembered brushing grass and realities aside, remembered the figure crouching behind him holding his hand. He laid his hand on the whitest wall, the one by the door, and felt himself almost sink through the solid stone. Yet it wasn't him. His fingers loosened some plaster and it fell between his fingers. He felt it irritate his skin slightly, passingly. He felt that itch burst through his hand, his nerves, his veins and his mind was on fire. His mind was fire. It had always been. He pushed against the whiteness of the wall. It smiled, and guided his hand through. And the whiteness wasn't there anymore.

He cut his hand on the way down. He was wearing gloves, yet the jagged molten rock cut through hide and hand both. He did his best to clamber the rest of the way down with one hand. The sun was still up, though it was going down over the sea. Aethel reached the bottom of the crater, half-filled with a slosh of seawater and random detritus. He stepped over a broken rum-bottle and looked out over the bay. Tall ships, schooners and strange ships with fan-like sails from the south, all glinted in the evening light. So much brightness. Aethel turned and faced the cliff he had just descended. There it was. Not exactly comfortably broad, a crack of about one and a half of his height protruded from the bottom of the crater and ran up the wall. Water was lapping at its sides and was running into it. He knew not where it went. However, he knew what it held. He lit a flame that floated above his right shoulder and he carefully went inside, minding himself not to squeeze to tightly against the jagged edges. The water ran gently along with him. Along, and down.

He'd been ducking and sidling through the cave for too long while when he smelt it. The Ley. He began to climb downwards, the water splashing off rocks and into his eyes. He steadied himself, although the excitement was unbearable. He knew he needed it. The cave widened, however slightly, and Aethel dropped down onto the cave floor, now knee-high in aromatic, clear water. The lines ran like glowing glass along the cave floor, although not the purple-white he had expected. He moved along the wall, gazing all the while at the floor. The lines ran randomly, perfectly, geometrically. They ran without a plan, but in perfect symmetry. The burnt orange glow was hard on the eyes, but Aethel could not look away. He felt his itch. He felt all his itches. He crouched down, the smell was intoxicating. He ran his hand along a narrow, searing line. He remembered whiteness. He remembered a boring book with pretty drawings. He felt the cave twist around him, a distant rumble within his head. He remembered a thing that had been a lizard. He remembered all his bad days, all his bad days to come and beyond. He felt teeth graze his arm. Scorched titanic hands caressed him, although they were not there. They were somewhere else. They were here, within and beneath.

_Become the other, Aethel the Red. Become the change._

Aethel felt the fire course in his veins. Waxing, waning and searing his skin, his eyelids were a memory. There was only the light in front of him, red, then white, then fel green and finally all was white around him. He was the nexus. He was what he needed to be. What He needed him to be.

She had cried, when he had been brought before them. No parent likes to find out that their son kills lizards for fun – but fewer like to find out that they did it for Him.

Aethel woke up in the darkened cave, half submerged in the cold water. He sat up, brushing his sodden hair from his face. The glassy lines beneath him had gone cold too. Yet he did not feel it. The cave was definitely dark, but he didn't find that impeding. The world around him was warmly lit from all sides, all sides but the real ones. He rose, adjusting his soaked shirt around his shoulders and glanced at his ruined glove. There was his hand, hale and pale, and he discarded the glove. The climb would be a hassle, he knew. Nevertheless, he knew he didn't have to. The walls were just whiteness, as the other ones had been. Pliable and mobile, all of them relative to everything else and perfectly non-existent, if you only thought of them that way. He put his pale hand on the cave wall, feeling it push into him and him into it, feeling its irrelevance. And he pushed.

He rode uncomfortably, yet tried to maintain a certain lax attitude in his posture. Head tilted forward, hood covering most, yet still letting him eye the horse and some of the road. The roads of the Tirisfal Hills had once been well kept and the grass around them verdant, yet now they were ashy grey-gravelled ghosts. The trees had died spectacularly, grounds covered in wiry bushes. Their house still stood, although boards and claw-marks covered its façade. He knew where the crypts were. They'd never let him down there of course. They thought it might've scared him senseless.

The ritual was tiring yet effective. He'd managed to find plenty of books, poor copies yet still useful, in the libraries of inns and town halls, all of them each with their own smidgen of knowledge on the subject. The salves, the incantations, the power necessary… Piece by piece, the story came together. He drew the last symbol of the circle, an ankh with a skull on top, and began chanting. Everything itched, then, but he knew that he needed to steady himself. Remain calm; remain in perfect tune… although he knew exactly what he itched for. However, he braced himself, knowing that it was close. The air seemed to vibrate then, and the first link of a rotted finger began to twitch. Raspy, unbelievably dry moans came from a long dead throat, and soon it became a full bellow. The bellow of the damned. He itched in his fingers, he itched in his ears and he itched in his eyes. He wished to flood the house, the crypt and the damned garden with his flames, yet he controlled himself. The second mouth, much less decrepit, joined the harmony and soon the crypt was filled with thick sound. He bit his lip, knowing that the spell was only inches away. Then the screaming stopped. And dead eyes looked at someone they hadn't seen in years. And what it had become.

Aethel rode off slower than he had gotten there, not savouring it, plainly out of sheer tiredness. His itch was still there, though it had been stimulated greatly. And continued to be stimulated. Aethel clutched the necklace that hung from his ever more gaunt neck. A simple white stone, chipped off and taken from the mausoleum wall. The spell had left it strangely glassy; yet still as rough as he had taken it and he could still feel it through the containment. The vibrations, the faintest sounds, the psychosomatic muscle relaxation. A blazing whiteness within the stone, and within that, two blotches. Two blotches of sameness. He sat back in his saddle, and scratched his chest with the stone. It felt good. It felt warm.


End file.
